


Divine was Right

by ApprenticedMagician



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5 Things, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22840327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticedMagician/pseuds/ApprenticedMagician
Summary: We never ever love the same way again.Neil Josten, for example, has fallen in love at least half a dozen times and all in different ways.An exchange gift for hoob-gooblin or palmet-hoes (I can't find you under either name on AO3!)
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 2
Kudos: 129
Collections: AFTG Exchange Valentine's Day 2020





	Divine was Right

**Author's Note:**

> You threw me for a loop when you requested "cutesy or silly" alongside "darker, more serious things that address like,, the undercurrents of crime, drugs, and violence in the books". So you get a series of vignettes which, sadly, means you get less of a plot but hopefully more feels - and that happy ending you asked for, obviously!
> 
> The title and summary come from Old Skool Love, sung by Divine Brown.
> 
> Many thanks and love to leahlisabeth for all her work in modding this event.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Find me on tumblr under this same username if you want to shout. =)

* * *

Nathaniel Wesninski, at the tender age of six, decided one day he loved apple juice.

Orange was fine, and grape was good, but apple sweetened his tongue and coated his throat with the memory of apple picking with Mother in the backyard – an extra fun adventure because the Wesninski’s didn’t own an apple tree. Mrs. Middleton did and her tree bent large, heavy branches over the fence. He liked being a rebel, even if it was Mrs. Middleton who was technically doing something wrong.

He was sad when his father called the city and forced the branches to be cut.

When his mom began buying cranberry juice instead, Nathaniel decided that was just as good anyway and fell in love with that.

* * *

Abram fell in _love_ with Exy as early as his first practice when he was seven.

He had no better way to describe it: the rush, the contest, the indelible proof that he had triumphed.

(Even better was the proof that he was a different man than his father; each practice, every game he loved proved that every joy he was taught to bleed out of someone else’s body could instead be sweated out of his own.)

The adrenaline erased all memory of any visitors his father had at home. The focus of the court fastened his attention on nothing but the opposing team of blue jerseys.

Even once he was off the court, all he wanted was to rush back in, to bash his fears against the plexiglass and overpower his every limitation – all he needed was to be _faster, smarter, better._ He couldn’t stop recounting every play of the game on the drive back, much to Romero’s amusement.

He was _obsessed_ and he didn’t know how to make himself stop.

* * *

Nate “Junior” Wesninski, at the age of ten, lost the first switchblade he had ever been given.

The slap from Lola hurt less than the actual loss, something inside him hollow and aching from an affection he didn’t know he’d harboured. The blade had been a gift from his father, something to tie them together in pride and legacy – just like how Jacob from school played with his dad’s old baseball glove or Shane wore a watch every day that was too big for his wrist.

That knife meant Nathan held expectations, or hopes, maybe dreams, for his son and the man he would become.

And even if Nate wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to live up to those expectations, it felt nice to know he _had_ them. He was meant to be more than a punching bag.

These days, all it felt like he had from his father was disappointment.

He never found that switchblade. Lola gave him a replacement and it didn’t feel quite as balanced in his grip, no matter how he practiced.

The ache remained inside, an endless echo that told him the relationship between father and son had been severed - long before the audition that turned his life sour.

* * *

Alex Grewal learned to fall in love with running.

He hated the routine at first; five laps around the motel, three times a day. Not that he had a choice, if he wanted to eat whatever meal his mother had managed to scrounge together. But slowly, the resentment he harboured from running (then cramping) on an empty stomach gave way to the satiation of reward from cheap, greasy calories.

Within a year, Alex was running for the fun of it. (“Fun” may have been the wrong word.) But Mother no longer threatened to deny him food and he ran laps even when he wasn’t hungry. It helped him feel safer; he could map out neighbourhoods, plan escape routes, keep in shape, know which cars were and weren’t familiar. And if that sounded a little paranoid to himself, he could take comfort in the fact that what he liked most about running, was how leisurely it felt to run without a pursuer.

Like it was a luxury, and it was the only one he could afford despite their hidden millions.

* * *

Neil Josten was struck dumb with love for Andrew Minyard.

He could still recall the memory, clear as day, when Andrew offered to blow him and the world tipped irreversibly sideways. Between one breath and the next, exactly like all the stories of Cupid’s arrow, Andrew was cast entirely in a different light.

It hadn’t been a decision on his part. It wasn’t an escapist obsession. It certainly wasn’t a lost thing to mourn. And it was far from something he had slowly talked himself into enjoying.

Even as he was justifying all the reasons they could work, all the safety measures that meant he could have this, even as a part of his mind resentfully held on to the gut bruising and the Eden drugging... Neil knew he wanted Andrew more than he’d ever wanted anything.

More than apples, more than freedom; more than his father’s approval or his mother’s affection.

He wanted Andrew, and roots, and ‘ _yes_ ’es _,_ and every single reason Andrew was giving him to stay.

* * *

Neil Josten-Minyard was twenty-eight on the day he carefully set down the cardboard box inside their apartment door, stepping carefully around it to find Andrew at the kitchen table, two mugs of steaming coffee in front of him. Neil picked one up gratefully, shooting Andrew a warm smile in thanks. Andrew didn’t appear to notice, flipping a page from the morning’s newspaper because he was a boring adult. Neil realized he’d have to break the ice.

“So, you know the cat in the back alley?”

A sharp flap of recycled paper preceded Andrew’s equally sharp, “No.”

“Really?” Neil scratched his hair, scalp itchy with sweat from his morning run. “You always say its yowling wakes you up at three in the morning.”

Andrew scowled but still didn’t look up from the paper. “I meant, ‘no’, as in: _no,_ you can’t adopt it. I refuse.”

“Who says I want to adopt it??”

“That stupid look on your face.” Which he _still wasn’t looking at!_ “You’re practically fluttering heart-eyes at me.”

Neil sputtered. “Maybe that’s just ‘cause I love _you_. Ever think of that?”

Andrew harrumphed and shot him a look. “I know you love Sir more.”

Neil pretended to clutch his heart in offense. “You would accuse me of being so shallow in my devotion to you?”

“Very easily.”

“Well, then it will come as no surprise to you that I’ve already named her.” Neil ducked back out to the entrance, rummaged a bit in the box he had brought, and pulled out a horrid, underfed animal with mange. “Meet King Fluffikins.”

Andrew groaned. “Neil…”

“What? It’s not like we can’t afford the vet bill.”

They both knew that wasn’t even remotely Andrew’s top concern. Or even his bottom concern. Truthfully, he was probably thinking how Sir would adapt to a strange cat encroaching on his territory. But he did take off his glasses to look more closely at her and all her misery. “You have a bad habit of adopting lost cases.”

“Yeah, well,” a quick kiss on the cheek, no question required because ‘it’s yes until it’s no’ ran both ways these days, “it’s turned out well for me so far.”

“This one has claws. And probably diseases.”

“You had knives.” The diseases part, he left unsaid. “I think I can handle her.”

“Oh yeah? This one you can’t tame with a pretty mouth and a ring.” Andrew flashed his gold wedding band in demonstration. He seemed to like doing that, since he took every opportunity to show it off. Neil didn’t know if Andrew knew he caught him polishing it every night. Of course, that could have been to keep it reflective – one of Sir’s favourite games was chasing the glare that intermittently ran along the walls and floor.

“Is that how I did it?” Neil mused, pretending to be pensive. “I always thought it was because I have a rockin’ bod.”

Andrew visibly gagged. “…Remind me to stop letting you take calls from Nicky. It’s upsetting our lovelife.”

“I disagree. Tying me down was the most fun we’ve had in ages.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but Andrew and his heated eyes weren’t arguing. Too busy reliving that bit of fun, perhaps. “Too bad I didn’t tie you down this morning,” he said eventually, eyes returning to the unhappy cat in Neil’s arms. “Then you couldn’t have rescued that thing.”

“Well, hindsight. And now this thing is ours.” He held her a tad bit closer and she mewled a little, unhappy but not fighting to leave his arms. “We’re gonna love her, Andrew.”

And they did. (Plus all the other cats that came after.)


End file.
